


Good With Numbers

by Savva



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, HP Drizzle Fest 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savva/pseuds/Savva
Summary: Apparently, there is more to life than numbers and formulas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Good with Numbers  
> Author/Artist: savvyshka  
> Prompt: #184 by rzzmg  
> Pairing(s): Theodore Nott/Hermione Granger  
> Word Count/Art Medium: ~1500 words  
> Rating: R  
> Warning(s): A bit of profanity  
> Disclaimer:Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
> Notes: Thank you so much to my prompter for this adorable prompt. Also, huge thank you to the mods for organising this fest and giving me an extension when my muse didn't cooperate.

**Good with Numbers**

You know it's stupid. You know you are making a fool of yourself, a laughingstock. You can almost hear the jokes Blaise and Draco are cracking, watching you from the window of their office. Oh, yes, those two are definitely having a ball at your expense right now. The last time you came back from lunch, their eyes were red from laughing so hard. Bastards!

You don’t mind, though. In fact, you would have laughed as well, if one of them had behaved as you are doing right now. Yet, in spite of all that, you knowingly and _willingly_ put yourself through this humiliation. You sit on this bench like the biggest idiot Merlin ever heard of and wait for her to come, counting minutes and seconds. Yes, counting, because numbers are the only things you are good at. Because it’s comforting, and you need it, since you are far beyond your comfort zone at the moment. 

You’ve been good with any kind of numbers as long as you can recall. Your mum taught you how to count when you were three, and since then, you've counted everything there is: buttons, cups, chairs, pictures … And when she died, you just kept counting. It was soothing. You still remember how many beads were in her favourite necklace. How can you not, since for many, many lonely nights, your only lullaby has been your own muffled whisper, “One, two, three, four …” There were exactly thirty-six of them, perfectly round black pearls, and since your father was never a cuddly type, or, indeed, especially friendly, they were your only friends for a very long time. 

Later, growing up, you discovered books, spells, potions, and formulas. So, naturally, you excelled in Arithmancy at Hogwarts, in finance and banking at Uni, and, in the course of time, in making money with Draco and Blaise. Which you have been doing brilliantly and happily until a short while ago: to be precise, until this May. That’s when Hermione Granger, with her wild hair, plump lips, and bright eyes began working in the same building with you and ruined everything. Everything! You had been warned that that was pretty normal behaviour for women. But to such an extent … Who would have known that such a slip of a witch could be that destructive?

In all honesty, though, your current state probably isn’t Granger’s fault. She didn’t do anything wrong. She just walked by your window towards the bench in a nearby park every lunch hour, unwittingly rendering you completely useless for the rest of the day. After the sound of her heels faded away, all you could think about was how luscious her curls looked, how neatly her summer dress hugged her soft figure, how musical the tapping of her heels sounded, and more nonsense of the sort that would certainly have made you cringe before this lunacy began. Yet you couldn’t help yourself. She must have bewitched you.

Thus, it didn’t take long until, one day, you went completely bonkers and followed her. If Draco or Blaise had been in your shoes, that would have been the end of the insanity. They would have known how to ask her for a date and all that. Alas, not you. Your affair with numbers, equations, and calculations has been the only affair in your life. In all your twenty-four years, you’ve never set your aim on a girl. Surprisingly, you’ve never had the need or time for that. Until that freaking moment!

You had no idea how exactly all that stuff about approaching females worked. Well, in theory you knew many things, even some unnecessary ones. You did have those two playboys as friends for a long, long while, after all. The practical part, however, proved to be much more difficult than your calculations led you to believe. The most you managed to accomplish in three months was to say ‘Granger’, sit down on the same bench, and eat your sandwich. In silence. Because you couldn’t come up with anything to say. How incredibly idiotic, indeed. 

You’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. Perhaps she doesn’t even find you attractive. After all, you’re just a bore in glasses, as Blaise so eloquently put it. Still, there should be a reason why she keeps coming here, to the same bench every day. Maybe she just likes this bench? Ugh, women are so difficult to understand.

Anyway, you are here today, again, siting on this stupid bench and waiting for her to come, knowing exactly how many seconds are left before she appears at the beginning of the path. (And, yes, you've counted, many, many times.) Today, though, you're actually considering the possibility of starting a conversion … about the weather. It’s warm and sunny, and the weather is a nice conversation starter. At least that's what Draco said. But of course, with your luck, the moment you notice her silhouette, you feel a raindrop on your forehead. 

_Shite. Shite. Shite._

_Why?_

By the time she reaches the bench, it’s raining pretty hard. Even so, she smiles and sits down near you. Surprised, you only manage to nod and mumble your habitual “Granger,” and she answers with her usual “Hi, Theo.” The long introductory sentence you’d prepared last night would sound completely asinine right now, and therefore you once again sit in silence. Only this time, neither of you is eating, since it’s raining. Also, your glasses are covered with raindrops, which doesn’t help. At all.

Then, after staring at your wet shoes for a long time, you blurt out, “We can run, you know. I can calculate the speed at which the raindrops won’t be able to catch us.”

Granger arches her eyebrows in surprise. “You can?”

You nod, and, already feeling stupid, add, “Or we can Apparate.”

“Well, where's the fun in that?” she says, peering at you playfully. 

“We probably won’t be able to accelerate that fast, though,” you say, gazing into her warm eyes.

“But we won’t know until we try. Right?” She smiles, and the amber flecks in her eyes mesmerize you.

“Right,” you say.

“Let’s run, then!”

Jumping up from the bench, she grabs your hand and runs. You run after her, feeling her warm palm pressed against yours, and noticing that you're moving in the opposite direction from your place of work. Also, your glasses become completely useless, because you’re moving too slowly, or maybe it _is_ impossible to outrun the rain. But you don’t care about any of that. As long as she is leading you, and her hand is in yours, you don’t care about anything. 

She stops in the middle of the meadow and turns to you, her gaze full of something you can’t quite place. Both of you are breathless, and your heart is pounding in your ears, and her summer dress clings to her so you can see her every curve. Her hair is wet and wild; her eyes are wide and locked on you, and her lips are open and so inviting. You don’t know how it happened, but the next moment you are kissing her, and she is responding in kind. Your bodies are close, and you can feel the heat of her skin, and it’s suffocating in the most wonderful, perfect way. She arches her neck, and you trace her skin with your lips, and she moans, moving closer into you.

You moan as well and try to step back, but she doesn’t let go, and her fingers find their way under your shirt.

“But?” you gasp, and all the words of advice about taking her to dinner, to a museum, and on a yacht swarm in your head. 

She silences you with, “ Shh, don't ruin it,” and you know that a change of plans is in order. Your hands tremble, but you manage to open the first few buttons of her dress, and your lips find her collarbone.

“Oh, Merlin!” she gasps.

 _Oh, Merlin_ , you think, and hoist her up and, using your last bits of common sense, Apparate both of you to your flat, because there's no way you would let anyone spy on all the things you want to do to her. 

It gets awkward when you land in the middle of your living room. So you hesitate, feeling unsure, but then, she reaches out and takes off your glasses. Your heart is pounding even louder in your temples, as she slowly unbuttons your drenched shirt.

She says, “Close your eyes,” and you obey her command. You can feel the tip of her tongue on your skin, tracing the muscles of your chest. When her lips find one of your nipples, you moan and tear your eyes open because it’s just too much. She smiles and says, “Take me to bed, Theo.” 

You obey her command again, and for once you have the opportunity to turn your theoretical knowledge into the practical kind. And it’s fucking magnificent! All your formulas and calculations don’t even come close to that. 

Afterward, the pair of you talk until it’s dark outside, and you learn that it is surprisingly easy to talk to girls, or, at least, to Hermione. Another important thought forms in your analytical mind, when you're finally able to think clearly again: it is really nice to have something more than numbers in life. 

Really, really nice indeed.


End file.
